


RyanAir

by BellarkeBelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Filipino Bellamy, Filipino Character, Fluff, So fucking fluffy you don't understand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 22:05:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4683041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BellarkeBelle/pseuds/BellarkeBelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When RyanAir leaves Clarke stranded in Manilla and refuses to reschedule her flight, or even put her up in a hotel, she calls the only person in the area she knows, not really expecting him to pick up, much less navigate the infamous Filipino traffic to come rescue her.</p><p> </p><p>(RyanAir is shit and you should never fly with them ever. Real talk.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	RyanAir

**Author's Note:**

> I swear to god I meant to write a fic about Clarke traversing the hell that is RyanAir but it just melted back into fluff so just know that flying RyanAir is something you ever want to do, and if you do it, you'll regret it for the rest of your life.

Clarke's stranded in the Philippines, glowering at her phone as she jabs at it with imprecise fingers, struggling to maintain a hold on her bags and find his number on Whatsapp. She manages, barely, and shrugs her luggage up onto her shoulder to listen to the drolling ring.

"Hello?" 

She starts at the voice, not having really expected any answer at all.

"Hey, um, so I'm in the Philippines?" She starts, not really sure how to invite herself to the house of someone she knew for two weeks four years ago.

"You are? Why didn't you tell me you were coming? How long are you staying? Where are you staying? What's your schedule look like?" He sounds much too awake for ten minutes to midnight, and his eagerness startles a sleepy smile out of her.

"I had only planned on a quick layover here, but my flight got canceled, and it's looking like I might be here for a little longer than I planned. The airline’s shit though - fucking RyanAir - they're not going to put me in a hotel, or reschedule my flight, or give me a goddamn refund, or fucking anything. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know what I’m going to do, I kind of used the last of my money to buy the ticket back home and if I can’t get there…” She trails off, too tired to think about it. She had been on a plane for the last nine hours, and spent the two days before that going from bus, to shuttle, to plane, to plane, to plane.

“Hey, look, which airport are you at? I’ll come pick you up, and we can figure it out after you’ve gotten some rest, okay?” He doesn’t sound the least bit bothered by her middle-of-the-night crisis, or his involvement in it.

“Manila.” She answers, “Thanks so much, Bellamy, I’m sorry to put you out like this, I just didn’t know what else to do, and-”

“Don’t worry about it, Princess.” He cuts her off goodnaturedly, “It’s going to take me a little bit to get here, the traffic here is horrible and the public transport is worse. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Try to take a nap, I’m on my way.”

Clarke breathes a sigh of relief, guilt thick in her stomach but the panic gone from her lungs. Now she’s just tired. Nodding even though he can’t see her, she thanks him again, apologizing profusely until he hangs up on her. Building a little nest out of her luggage in the corner she curls up around her sweatshirt, smiling a little as she drifts off, letting the old nickname remind her of summer and Spain.

It’s an hour and 45 minutes later when her phone rings, and she wakes up heavy and sick with exhaustion, the little taste of REM not enough to keep her afloat.

“Hey, Princess, I’m about ten minutes away, can you wait for me between terminals C and D?”

She opens her mouth to respond but a yawn slips out before any words do. “Sure thing.” She murmurs as he chuckles, swaying to her feet and collecting her things.

True to his word, he arrives ten minutes later, pulling up in a blocky car. He’s loading her bags in the trunk before she fully realizes he’s there, and before she knows it, she’s drifting off in his back seat to a podcast on roman history.

It feels the same as it did four years ago.

When she wakes up again it’s one o’clock in the afternoon and there’s sun streaming in from behind the heavy curtains lining one side of the room. The bed is small but full of pillows, and the covers are wrapped around her so tightly she doesn’t even notice the sheets plastered to her skin until she tries to extricate herself. The fabric, once white, is now transparent - slick and sticky with her sweat. Sweeping damp hair from her face, she sits up, air thick and heavy after her long, deep sleep. She’s still in her clothes from the plane, and she doesn’t bother to change out of her tank top and leggings as she pads out of the room.

The bathroom is right across the hall, and she’s amazed that she still needs to pee after the amount of liquid she lost to her bed last night. A glance in the mirror tells her the dark shadows under her eyes have been cured, but the oil glazing her skin has not. SHe manages to wash her face before her growling stomach trumps her need to be clean. She can’t even remember when she ate last.

RyanAir doesn’t even serve peanuts.

RyanAir doesn’t even serve water.

There’s a note on the kitchen counter from Bellamy - he’s at work, but she should make herself at home; the fridge, the pantry, everything was hers if she wanted it. Humming appreciatively, she helps herself to a bowl of Frosted Flakes before hopping into the shower.

The apartment is nice, maybe five floors above the city, and while small, more than sufficient for one person. Her room overlooks a courtyard formed by a block of apartment buildings, and sits just across from the bathroom, barely two feet of hall space separating the rooms. Where the rooms end, the hall opens up, making space for the living room containing the kitchen table, couch, and television, followed by an open, American-style kitchen. Another narrow hall leads to what she assumes is his room, and then around the corner to the front door.

Small, but efficient. Clarke can’t help love it.

Bellamy brings home dinner at 6:36 that night, dropping off a bag of Chinese takeout before excusing himself to go wash up in the bathroom. Clarke lowers the book she was reading, surprised to find herself 200 pages into the story of Persephone and Hades.

“Ah, man, _May We Meet Again_?” He grins when he sees it, “I should have known you’d like that. It’s one of my favourites.”

“I always thought of Persephone as the victim of the situation, I never really considered this perspective, it’s fascinating.” Clarke nods.

“Yeah, most people don’t, but I have to say I prefer this version. Two gods in love, tearing apart time itself to be with each other, to rule together, side by side.”

Clarke grins at the unexpected romanticism, but finds herself agreeing wholeheartedly as she scoots over to let him slide onto the couch next to her.  
“I wasn’t sure if you were still vegetarian,” he continues, handing her a carton and chopsticks, “So I got you some noodle thing with vegetables.”

“Yeah, I am - I can’t believe you remembered that!”

Bellamy shrugs and mumbles something unintelligible but flippant around a mouthful of fried rice.

“Uh, yeah, that is a bit impressive, considering you met me in a Spanish language school four years ago and haven’t seen me since.” Clarke responds easily.

She had been 17, traveling with her mother one last time before she graduated high school. He had been 23, catching up on his professional skills now that his sister was in college. She’d, of course, been hopelessly enamored - or perhaps, more accurately, intrigued - with the intense young man with the golden freckles and broad shoulders who could regale them with stories from empires past, and little sisters present. He’d been what she had wanted to be, powerful and articulate, but well-liked and amiable, mature and well-versed in the ways of the world, but funny and unabashedly quirky. He had lived a whole third of her current lifespan more than she had, at the time, and she hadn’t even flirted with him, preferring to spend a different kind of time in his company, talking world politics and dreaming about the future - both personal and sociocultural.

This time, though, she’s 21 and he’s 26 and the gap doesn’t seem quite as wide.

“That was a good summer.” He smiles, and it reminds her of the way the light had filtered into her room when she woke up.

“Yeah, it’s a shame our schedules didn’t line up better.” She smiles back, but quickly becomes distracted with fitting noodles in her mouth in a way that doesn’t leave half of them in her lap.

“Two weeks of me wasn’t enough for you, Princess?” He flicks his hair and juts out his jaw cockily and she chokes on laughter and Chinese food and she wouldn’t have said that that was a good combination before but she’d be willing to give it another chance now.

It’s a good thing too, because the night turns out to be full of laughter and Chinese food, and then laughter and ice cream, laughter and popcorn, laughter and wine…

She falls into bed at midnight and she’s already drifting off to sleep before she realizes they never even mentioned fixing her flight.

The next day is Saturday and she’s met with a “Hey, Princess.” the second she trudges out of her room. She thinks she manages to grunt back in response but she wouldn’t bet money on it. A shower leaves her feeling significantly more alive, but upon stepping out, she realizes she hadn’t bothered to bring a change of clothes with her. Wrapping the towel around herself she grabs her pajamas in her free hand and walks out of the bathroom and into the air conditioning. She ignores the wolf whistle she gets as she crosses the hall again, and doesn’t become verbal until after she downs a glass of juice.

It’s pinapple, her favourite.

“So, what’s the plan for today?” She asks, once she’s sure she’s human.

“I was thinking I could show you around the city a little bit? I mean, how often are you going to be in the Philippines, right?”

“That sounds awesome.” She nods, rooting for the Frosted Flakes.

“It’s going to be a lot of walking.” He warns.

“Bellamy, I’ve been backpacking around the world, I think I can wander around the city for a day.” She turns, setting a bowl on the ledge separating the kitchen from the living room. He’s got his hands up in surrender, but there’s a smirk dancing around his lips.

“Okay, okay, but I was going to say: if you get bored of walking, I thought we could hit up the Ateneo Art Gallery for a little bit, or the Ayala History Museum which I may or may not have a year-long membership to...”

Clarke giggles, plopping on one side of the couch, digging into her cereal as he lifts her stretched out legs up so he can sit, only vaguely surprised when he sets them gently down on his lap instead of tossing them to the side. “How about we hit one today and one tomorrow and split the exploring the city into two parts?” She suggests, reveling in the feel of his hands resting curled around her toes.

“That sounds great.” He says after a beat, and she realizes that showing up unexpectedly on his doormat does not give her the right to dominate his weekend.

“Unless you have other plans!” She rushes to add, meaning to tack on other assurances, but he cuts her off quickly.

“No, no, no, it’s fine, I’m free.” He promises, squeezing her feet.

She bites her lip before she does something embarrassing like ask him to do that again.

He seems to notice anyway because he raises an eyebrow at her with a smirk before digging his thumbs into the arch of her foot.

She shoves cereal in her mouth at an alarming rate as he proceeds to give her the best foot massage she’s ever had in her life. It’s all perfectly absentminded, of course, and he maintains a faux-casual stream of chatter as he throws out suggestions for where they hit first, good places to stop and eat, cultural norms she should keep in mind, etc. She nods where she thinks it’s appropriate, gets excited about the art museums and tourist attractions, and wonders why she hadn’t planned the Philippines as one of her stops to begin with.  
Rolling the ball of her foot out on more time he grabs her dishes from her and stands up, shooing her off to get ready when she tries to protest.

The weekend passes in a blur. The museums are _gorgeous_ and learning about the history of the islands is enthralling. Listening to Bellamy talk about his homeland, his family, his history - she knows she has the best guide in the islands, not just because he knows his stuff, but because he makes it so real. It’s not just the stories, or the way he tells them, it’s that they’re _his_ stories, and he makes her feel them the way she can tell that he feels them.

Listening to him speak Tagalog is even more beautiful than listening to him speak Spanish, because in Spanish his accent, though beautiful, was always a foreign addition to the language, and in Tagalog it belongs, just like Bellamy belongs in these distant, picturesque islands.

It’s not until her mother calls four days later that she realizes they still haven’t even spoke about sorting out her flight schedule, and by then she’s fallen into the easy rhythm of island life.

“Darling, we were worried, when are are you coming home?” Her mum asks, twenty minutes into the call - that up until this point has largely consisted of Clarke attempting to articulate the wonders of her unexpected adventure.

The question stops her short. “Um, I don’t know yet, Mum.” She manages, sounding more confused than she would have liked.

“Well, what is the airline saying, do I need to call Kane?”

“We,” Clarke starts, still a little at a loss, “we haven’t contacted them yet. I’m sorry, I just got so excited about being here that I didn’t even - wow.”

“You’re a big girl, Clarke, as long as you’re safe.” Abby starts, “but you do have grad school to think about, just because you graduated early doesn’t mean you can defer for the rest of your life, Sweetheart.”

“Yeah, yeah, no, of course, Mum.”

“Okay then, Sweetpea, I was just calling to check up on you, I’ll talk to you in a few days.”

“Bye, love you, Mum.”

“Love you, Sweetie.”

Clarke means to talk to Bellamy about the conversation, she does, but he comes home and it’s her turn to cook and she hadn’t even started chopping the vegetables yet, and then after that she doesn’t even think about it again until she’s already well on her way to asleep.

Clarke doesn’t realize she’s moved in with Bellamy until she opens her closet one morning to find it full of clothes - only about 10% of which were from her suitcase.

She doesn’t realize she’s moved to Manila until she applies for a job at the art museum - and gets it.

She’s telling Bellamy this at an art exhibit one night, where her paintings are hanging proudly on display, when she realizes something else.

“Bellamy Blake.” She breathes, eyes wide, “Do you remember that day we were on the beach, in Spain, and I was telling you I wasn’t going to fall in love while clutching a copy of the Complete Works of Jane Austen?”

He snorts a little at the memory of teenage Clarke in all her contradicting irony, “Yeah, I told you that you were wrong and you shrugged and said ‘maybe’.” He cocks his head at her, confused.

“Yeah,” Clarke whispers, “yeah, I was definitely wrong.”

And then she kisses him.

Lucky for her, he kisses her back.

Unlucky for her, she gets kicked out of her own art exhibit.

It doesn’t matter, because a year later she’s pulling him into their new apartment in the States, more than ready to play tourist again in the not-so-little college town they’ll call home until she graduates - or rather, until they graduate.

“I’m glad you realized you were in love with me.” He presses the words against her lips.

“Mmph.” It’s assent on her part, she promises.

“And I’m glad you made me apply to go to school with you.”

“Mmmm.” She agrees.

“But seeing as you were the one who moved in with me, who kissed me, who dragged me to a different country with you, I think it’s my turn to take some initiative.”

“Yeah.” Clarke nods, pulling him back down to kiss her.

“Goddamn it, Princess.” He groans, “Can you hold on just one second?”

“Too what?” She grins, waggling her eyebrows ridiculously.

“Clarke, I’m really glad you’re in love with me because I am, really, really, in love with you.” He takes a deep breath, as if he’s regrouping, “You’re my Persephone, my Spring, my Queen and my Princess. I will tear time apart to have you at my side, and follow you across the world if that’s what it takes for you to be happy. Because you being happy makes me happy. Because you make me happy. Because I really want to fucking marry you.” It’s not that great a speech, it’s choked and choppy, a little nonsensical, and utterly, overwhelming sincere. That’s what saves it, really - it’s hard to critique a guy who can barely talk, he’s so head-over-heels.

He looks around like he’s thinking about getting down on one knee, but she’s got him pinned to the wall of their new apartment and she likes the position too much to let him propose properly. Instead he just coughs and digs around in his pocket, pulling out a little box gilded with black velvet.

“Clarke Griffin, will you marry me?” He asks, whispering the words into her hair as she takes the box from him, opening it and slipping on the swirling silver ring herself. She nods into his chest, and she knows he knows she’s crying.

It’s okay, because she knows he’s crying too.

“I wanted to go more traditional Filipino, but gold is kind of our thing and I know you don’t like gold jewelry so I took the design from that painting you did for me for my 27th birthday and saying that outloud I realize-”

“Shhh,” She sniffs, looking up, “leave the sudden realizations to me.” She sniffs again. “I love it. I love you. Why are you so mushy? How did I fall in love with a gross, mushy, romantic?”

He sniffs too, smiling down at her with tear tracks on his cheeks. “I would say opposites attract, Princess, but I know you, Clarke, I dated you, and now I’m engaged to you, and I can say with 100% certainty that you are just as much of a gross, mushy, romantic as I am.”

“You jerk!” She yells, slapping his chest with mock affrontation, “I wanted to be the one to say it first!”

“Say what?” He smirks at her, “That we’re engaged?”

“Dick.” She mutters.

“What did I tell you?” He grins, “Hopeless romantic.”

And then he finally, finally, returns his lips to hers, kissing her with all the excitement forever can bring.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, hope you liked it! :)
> 
>  
> 
> Hit me up at PersephoneClarke


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